Mermaid Parade Photos

Bubbles for the Kiddies 2,
originally uploaded by ashyknees.

My pictures are on now on flickr for your viewing pleasure and edification.

Comfort Station

I would describe Coney Island and the Mermaid Parade in robust detail, I would lovingly paint each sunburned shoulder, each brown limb dusted with sand, each child's scream of delight and dismay, if only I weren't still so very pissed off about my health insurance, among other things. For now, all I can say was that we saw a man dressed as dookie.

Last weekend's visit to the Coney Island boardwalk introduced me to a new euphemism for public toilets: comfort stations. Right now, my mind feels like the comfort station and the crowded beach it served, a perpetually swirling tide of contrasts. Life is like the scent of Chinatown beneath the Manhattan Bridge, disgusting and delicious.

If fun lasted forever, would it still be fun?
Is the dookie that surrounds a beautiful weekend any less stank?

Maybe I'll Get Over It Someday

Okay, I still want to know how come so many people in porn photos look so stupid. It's as if they didn't know their genitals and other sexy parts existed, and then all of the sudden while undressing, bathing or swimming, they're like "Heavens, I have an ass. Let me stick it out and ponder it." or "Gasp, I have boobs. I could just faint from the shock of it all!"

That's not the most important thing pissing me off this, week, but it's the most amusing. At least the PBS vote went as it should.

P.S.
I'm craving crab meat, just so you know.

Coney Island Bound

Mermaid Parade, here I come!

"You owe nothing to the past but wasted time."

I've seen the end of the day come too soon
Like the prison dogs they set out after you
You owe nothing to the past but wasted time
To serve a sentence that was only in your mind
In your mind

Beck Hansen

"This time, it's for real: Save NPR and PBS"

Those of you with a glimmer of hope that we might live in a civilized country, please check this out.

Happy Pancake

It's a pity how bad news can usurp the good from the top of memories. Let the record show that the weekend had some great moments, too.

On Friday evening I saw a truly nice documentary, Mad Hot Ballroom, with Melba. Afterwards, I drank my first sidecar.

Mrs Ass treated me to Madagascar, a totally new (at least to me) entre, and a raspberry water ice that stained my tongue a very flatering shade of purple. Watching a family movie with an actual family was also a rare treat. I was eagar to hear the Asslings' opinions. One fell asleep; the other giggled a lot, but thought the movie was too loud. Dreamworks is no Pixar. The story was flat, but I found the the roundness of the Pinkett Hippo's belly most relaxing. That night, I played glow in the dark frisbee.

I visited Aunt Liz on Sunday. She fed me, taught me how to play Spider, and gave me one of her empty file cabinets.

Days of Deep Breathing

"…it, it the, it, flame, flames, FLAMES on the side of my face, breathing…"
Madeline Kahn as Mrs. White

With the recent humidity, gum line adjustment, not getting my teeth cleaned, frisbee, accepting the loss of a major creative outlet, then getting my teeth cleaned at last, I've been doing a lot of deep breathing over the past few days, but perhaps not enough.

Mental Hygiene

By breathing deeply and remembering "this too shall pass," I managed to let my new dentist give me a novocaine injection without completely freaking out yesterday. My wonderful new dentist recommends that I take a valium before my next intense session of dental work.

To those of you who look down on such pharmaceutical problem solving, I must say that a valium would have done me a world of good in dealing with what happened after my new dentist did her thing.

Following my crown work appointment, I was supposed to have my regularly scheduled teeth cleaning, but because of a paperwork SNAFU on the part of this office, I couldn't get it done. So instead of melting down over having a big scary needle repeatedly jabbed into the side of my face, I had melt-down over having a big incompetent dental bureaucracy repeatedly screw with my head.

one(1) little man covered in soot who can make all different colors of fire

Oh No

"You are only hurting yourself with this rambunctious behavior."

No Scrab, Just Gab

Yesterday, while walking to south philly, I was mesmerized by the latest in skywriting technology overhead.

Snacks and the artist formerly known as Melba hosted the June not or possible scrabble shindig on Sunday. The orzo salad and conversation was scrumptious and complex.

If you ever see Snacks, ask him about his posse of south Philly old ladies who help him keep the streets safe for decent folk. "They're hot," says Snacks.

A Bar Mitzvah...

It was a two-improv gig Saturday. The first was a money making Bar Mitzvah appearance which we survived thanks to some PGTV schtick. The second was in a Chinatown night club.

Our short-staffed troupe was rounded out by a young philly female comedy spitfire from another troupe. At lunch, the spitfire showed us an amusing assortment of discarded fencing trophies that she'd found while crawling through the underground utility tunnels of her Main Line alma mater. I asked her if she was interested in working in a library.

We still had hours to kill before our nighttime bar gig in the big city. Thank god none of the boys wanted to fork over the admission to the comic book convention. I was itching to practice throwing the frisb, and the trophy collector needed a new outfit, so we headed to the worst mall in the world to buy the necessaries.

Something about dress shopping with a young woman who is the right age to be my biological child --if I had been very promiscuous in junior high-- brought out the maternal in me. Questions like "And what kind of bra would you wear with that?" fell from my lips.

...A Bar, and a Pimped Out Pick Up

After the show, I ordered a martini from the bar. Later I thought, wow, my tolerance has really dropped. I wasn't just tipsy. I was approaching loaded. That didn't stop my from performing--and rather well I must say-- in the post show improv jam. Afterward, the bartender told me he'd put 4 shots in my drink. Thanks, I think.

As we walked from Chinatown to Old(e) City we saw it. Turning onto market street was a most glorious pearl blue gray tricked out pimped out pick up truck you could ever dream of, piloted by a Miami Vice integrated hetero couple. Though they made their truck dance the lambada, they were cold as ice as young women approached their ride to say hello. We stood on the sidewalk and applauded as the pick up rolled and strutted to the river, lighting up the pavement beneath it.

The spitfire advised me to approach guys by remarking on any remotely positive trait they exhibit. She then demonstrated this technique on many random strangers as we walked up Market Street. "Hey, check out what's on your plate, sidewalk diner." "Hey, I like your motorcycle helmet. (stroke) It's so smooth and shiny." The weird thing is, this actually worked for her in that everyone smiled and no one ran away or tried to hit her.

A Very New Team

I have met my summer frisbee team and oh how I miss my spring team.

To be fair, the kiddies on my new team are friendly enough. They're agile, nubile, and projectile. Thanks to the spring in their young legs we won our Wednesday night pre-season game. But after a day of working on campus, I'm not all that eager to spend time with more underage people who say things like, "cell phone roaming, what's that?" I almost started to laugh when the team captain groaned and sighed at his mother's nagging questions. Yes, mom was there. He lives with her.

It appears that I'm one of a few thirtysomethings on the team, making this summer season more of a workout and less of an opportunity to meet special friends. A guy on the opposing team caught my eye, but I have no feminine wiles, so I didn't know how to approach him socially. He did complement me for running hard, but the way I was huffing and puffing to keep up with all the young 'uns, I'm sure that was more out of pity than anything else.

It's funny, but when I'm trying to outrun others, I have to remind myself how to be faster. "You have longer legs than her. Use your stride." "Use more energy." "Try harder!" Duh. I imagine natural athletes run just fine without needing to think about it.